


Lover

by Michelleleahhh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Avenger Loki (Marvel), Drama & Romance, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fix-It of Sorts, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki Feels, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelleleahhh/pseuds/Michelleleahhh
Summary: Being rescued by one of the Avengers is definitely a great story, too bad you can’t remember it.Amnesia, you know?
Relationships: Loki/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 110





	Lover

You’re perfectly fine. Absolutely, incandescently… fine. 

Fine.

Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional. F.I.N.E.

You’ve made up your mind, you’re better off without him.

Or, that’s what you convince yourself as you drown your sorrows, fears, and loneliness in a cup of tea. English breakfast tea at that. God, you wish you had something a tad stronger. Vodka, tequila, hell, even a chai tea would suffice. 

At least the weather outside matches your current mood. Mischievous grey clouds litter the sky foreshadowing rain, thunder, and lightning. Fall has finally blasted through the streets of New York City. 

You burrow further into the wicker-café seat, surveying streets through the glass window. You sigh. Lifting the cup to your lips and blowing on the liquid, you decide there’s no reason to cry. Steam rises from your drink and clears your sinuses. 

Breakups are normal. Ending relationships happen. It’s not really an end, it’s a beginning. 

There were endless Etsy signs of motivation to help you through what is surely going to be a rough few months. 

The bell over the door chimes, catching your attention. You swing your gaze to watch as a man enters. Black hoodie, black pants, black baseball cap. 

You roll your eyes and sip the tea watching him take a seat at a table in the corner of the cafe. Doesn’t he know that punk went out of style circa 2002? 

When he pushes the black hood off of his head, your eyes widen. 

He’s handsome. 

Like _really_ handsome. 

Not gorgeous though. No, he was an approachable, chiseled handsome. Porcelain skin, intense eyes, black hair. As if sensing your stare, he glances your way and frowns, making you dart your attention back to the chipped mug in your hand. Maybe not approachable then. 

You run your thumb over the lip of your drink and sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye. He looks familiar. Though, you can’t really place where you know him from. Maybe he goes to the same Bodega as you? Same Subway? 

He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would waste their time on the subway though. The high arch of his eyebrow as he looks around the café makes it seem like he’s used to the finer things in life. 

Almost like a punk, privileged, Prince. Reigning over the old, sleepy café in Astoria, Queens. You smirk to yourself. When your eyes make contact, he lifts his lip in a small sneer. Rude too then. 

After a moment, he looks away from you and pulls a phone from his pocket. 

Is that a flip phone?

Yikes. It is an actual flip phone with a non-descript logo on the back of it. 

It’s official - you’re a psychic. He _is_ from 2002. 

He frowns at his cell, flips it closed then drops it back on the table. As he does that, a watch glows from his wrist - so maybe he’s not as archaic as you initially believed. Or, more likely, a drug dealer. 

Burner cell, borderline anonymous exterior (Come on… a black non-descript, baseball cap inside a coffee shop?), and high-end smartwatch. 

He taps it, frowns, and then folds his hands on the table, staring expectantly into the air.

“Anything else?”

You snap out of your thoughts and turn to the waitress standing over you. You shake your head, “I’m good. Thanks.”

The waitress shifts all of her weight onto one leg and juts out her hip. “My shift ends in like 10, do you mind if I bring you the check?” 

A strained smile lifts to your face and you nod, “That’s fine.” 

Even though you just got there. Totally, _absolutely_ fine. 

You sigh, frustrated with your short temper. Because it’s really not a big deal… today is just the kind of day where everything is a calamity, a pain, a travesty. 

You reach into your bag, sifting through the junk hidden inside it and pulling your wallet from its cavernous depths. It’s the type of bag that is just pure chaos. No pockets, no dividers. Just one big tote. You study the faux caviar leather of your wallet and dust off the crumbs before setting it on the table. 

You scan the cafe for your waitress notice the guy is looking at you, or just pass you.

You check over your shoulder, expecting to see some supermodel or druggie crossing the street through the window. Only no one is outside the glass window. Your eyebrows furrow as you turn back to face the table in front of you. 

The man begins talking to himself. His words are punctured, measured. And based on the tightness of his jaw, you can only imagine how heated they must be.

Great. He’s a crazy, punk, drug dealer. Good thing you’re about to leave. His face pulls into a deep frown and rolls his eyes at the conversation he’s having with himself. 

You take another sip of your tea, tapping your fingers rhythmically on the table when suddenly a large bang interrupts the silence in the cafe. You look over to find the guy is running towards you. What in the-

It’s like the seconds pass in slow motion. 

You’re propelled forward and the cafe flips on its side. A scream erupts from somewhere, maybe it’s you, maybe the waitress. You’re not entirely sure. 

Glass shatters over you, wreckage rains down. It cuts your skin into easy tatters and you can feel the blood begin to seep from inside of you. Pain. Pain erupts from your head as it slams on the linoleum floor of the cafe. You stay there for a second, dazed and staring at the ceiling in wonder. 

You groan, forcing any type of feeling into your limbs. You barely turn your head to the side and see the waitress run out of the café onto the streets. Screaming. Ah. 

You should probably do the same. Should try and get up and run out the door. It’s a distant thought though like your subconscious is demanding you. But, the cracking tiles above you are much more fascinating to study. Sawdust splinters through the roof, falling like snow around you. 

Just as it begins to crack, a punk, crazy, drug dealer drapes himself over you. His firm body covers your own. His arm bears his weight, not even shaking from exertion as his body takes the brunt of falling debris.

What’s truly fascinating is that your mind can notice his firm body, but can’t manage to get up and run for the door. 

Then, his outfit changes instantly in a green glow. And _that_ is so much more fascinating. Because now your brain is literally making magic from nothing. 

You must be dreaming; your head must have hit the ground a lot harder than you initially thought. That’s why there are pain and a magical outfit change. Because he’s now in leather and metal. A lot of it, and it’s no longer just black, now it’s also green. Ah. 

Oh. 

Yes. 

That makes much more sense. 

A distant, foreign sense of understanding clicks in your head as you stare at Loki of Asgard.

_That’s_ how you know him. That’s why he looked so familiar. The guy responsible for the attack on New York, arch-villain turned avenger. Brother of Thor. 

What in the hell is going on? 

It’s a fleeting thought, one you can’t really register as the slow speed of the past two minutes begins to warp around you. It skips around. It happens so fast. 

Another explosion erupts and shakes the ground. A groan slips out of you as you fight to remain awake. After all, you have seen a few things on TV. And any fan of medical dramas would tell you: the person with the head injury has to stay awake. 

“Really?” He says sarcastically from above you. “I had _no_ idea.” 

His face is so close to yours you can actually feel his breath wafting over your skin. It smells like snow, clean and fresh. And also, like blood. Like copper. 

“What?” You ask, though it probably sounds more like a rasp gurgle, as he answers you with an annoyed glare. The pain radiates lower in your stomach, making your vision blur. 

“Unfortunately, I am currently rescuing one of those useless Midgardian damsels you are so partial too. Perhaps the Beast could-“ 

Are you dying? Because you can’t breathe. “Well then, I could always leave her to die.” He gives you an indifferent look, eyes narrowing past the long bridge of his nose as if contemplating the thought of leaving you there. 

“Tempting,” he mutters. 

You try to take a deep breath in, only to find it hurts. Then dust catches in your throat, wet and thick, so you cough, not able to hold it in. The next thing you see is blood splattered across Loki’s sharp, pale face. 

He touches his chin, gathers the liquid on his fingertips, and gives it a cool regard before piquing an eyebrow in your direction. “Oh dear,” he sighs with a mocking tone. “Looks like she’ll die either way.” 

As your eyelids flutter shut, his hand painfully grasps your chin. You train your gaze on him though darkness is calling from the edges of your eyes. 

“Stay awake,” he demands. “I would loathe having to explain a casualty on my first unaccompanied mission. I’d never hear the end of it.” You focus on his lips, thin, pursed, and arrogant. He’s really quite attractive. 

You mumble something incoherent, something even _you_

can’t comprehend. 

Then he’s standing swiftly, materializing a dagger in his lean, delicate grip. He throws it and you hear a large thud, you try to keep your eyes on him, but the next thing you know, you’re in the air. You feel his arms wrap around you, one arm underneath your legs and the other supporting you back. Bridal style. You look around, coughing again, feeling more liquid dribble down your chin. That’s when you see the damage surrounding you: the leveled buildings and creatures storming towards you. 

What are they? 

You rest your head against the chest of Loki, the crazy, punk, drug dealing, villainous avenger. The leather cools your skin as he begins moving backward. You try to focus, try to admire the pretty green glow now flowing around you, but instead, fatigue swallows you whole. 

xXxXx

A murmuring, measured, rhythmic beeping wakes you.

Your eyelids slide open, dazed by the blinding white walls that scar your retinas. You blink furiously and try to sit up, only to find wires burrowed in your skin. You grasp the wires, ignoring the burn that comes when you attempt to pull them. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” You look up and find a middle-aged man, with a mustache and chin stubble. “How do you know Reindeer Games?”

What in the hell?

He’s not wearing scrubs, even though you’re currently wired to four different monitors. Is he a doctor? Why can’t you remember anything?

You try to remember what brought you here, but it’s all a blur. Swallowing thoughts, you discover your mouth is dry and chapped. 

You ignore the man in front of you and instead try to focus on your surroundings. “Where am I?” You ask finally, ignoring the pain in your throat. Water, you need water. 

After looking around yourself, the man walks closer, grabbing a plastic cup off of the tray-table to your left. He leads the straw to your mouth. You greedily swallow the liquid, pulling your hand up to try and grasp the cup from his hold. “Careful,” he advises in a careless tone and pulls it away before you can down the whole glass. 

“You’re in Stark tower.” 

“Where?” 

He gives you an odd look as you lick your lips wanting more water, though know you probably shouldn’t. The dredges of sleep start to pull at the corners of your mind and you fall back down. 

Then, before you even know it, you’re asleep again. Falling into a dark rabbit hole. 

xXxXx

The next time you wake, you are surrounded by more people. The man from earlier is gone. If he was even real. 

Now, a team of doctors monitor your vitals and scribble notes on their clipboards. 

They fluff your pillows and flash lights into your eyes, helping you sit up and bringing you a cup of water. You drink from it slower than you normally would, like your unsure of how to drink. You do your best to hold back a wince as the water flows down your throat. 

When one of them says your name, you glance at her. 

“That’s me,” you quip and put the plastic cup on the tray in front of you. 

She smiles softly, tucking a loose hair behind her ears. “I’m Doctor Cho. Do you remember what brought you here?” Her voice floats softly around you. 

You pause, gripping the sheets under you. Trying to recall the last thing that you remember. Only, it’s all fuzzy, like the soft edges of your mind have faded into a blur. Your mouth falls open, as you try to trace your steps. Huh. 

There’s nothing. 

The thought scares you, sends a hurtling sense of dread through you. It couldn’t be normal. It isn’t. How could you not remember something that brought you to the hospital - or whatever this place is. The man from earlier called it something specific. A _Tower_. 

A familiar sort of name, like one you should know without any explanation. Stark, that’s what it was. Like the company. 

Stark Tower. 

You glance up at the doctors, the panic probably laced across your face. 

“It’s okay,” Another doctor comes closer and pats your ankle, likely trying to reassure you with a humanizing touch. “It’s normal to not remember the incident. There was an attack and you were brought here by one of the Avengers.”

“Avengers?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart. What in the hell is an Avenger? “I’m sorry, I…” 

A doctor from the left shifts uncomfortably, his lips pull into a frown. 

“The Avengers,” Dr. Cho repeats. “Like Iron Man.” 

Iron Man? What? 

“You mean Iron Man, like the flying robots from the news? I’m sorry, is this some sort of prank?” 

Dr. Cho startles for a moment. Her eyes widen and breath hitches like something unexpected is unfolding before her. She opens her mouth, likely to speak, when the door opens and reveals the man from earlier. 

A man in scrubs greets him with surprise, “Stark, what are you doing here?” 

The man rolls his eyes, “My mistake, aren’t we still in Stark tower?” The doctor rolls his eyes, but the man - Stark- continues, “How’s the patient.” 

“We’re just starting, perhaps you’d like to come back at another time?” 

“I think I’ll stay.” He says, taking a seat on the armchair in the corner and hikes his feet on a stool. He pulls out a smartphone, and when the room remains silent he looks up, “Continue.” 

The male doctor runs his hands through his brown tresses and turns to you. His hands are marked up with scars. You study them, wondering how they ever came to be. 

“We’re going to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.” At your frightened look, the male doctor adds quickly, “All standard procedure of course.” 

“Okay,” you whisper.

“What is the name of your parents.” 

You roll your eyes as you answer the ridiculous question.

“That’s great. Who is president.” 

Psh, cake. 

The doctor's lips strain into a tense smile. 

“Now, what year is it?” 

You are momentarily blindsided and sway your attention back to Dr. Cho. She smiles in encouragement and you glance back to the male doctor. 

“It’s 2012.” You say with a smile, confident in your answer until everyone stills unnaturally. 

“I’m sorry, this is ridiculous.” Of course, you know the year. But the way they’re looking at you makes you second guess yourself and swallow a thick gulp of air. So, instead, you look at the other man’s hands, the long-scarred lines that are etched onto the skin, rough pink raised lines. 

When the doctors look around, Mr. Stark stands suddenly. He plucks the chart out of the doctor’s hand and begins to read furiously. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He turns to the male doctor. “She was the only witness.” 

The male doctor snaps at him. 

Witness for what?

You don’t know. And you don’t want to ask. 

The two men begin to bicker back and forth, drawing the attention of everyone but you and Dr. Cho. 

Finally, you turn to her and stutter out, “L-Look, can I just go home now?” 

The whispered question somehow silences everyone. 

And when the doctors just stare at each other with deep, sad glances. When the uncomfortable silence stretches. You realize the truth, even before Dr. Cho says your name in a rough statement, stoic and cold. Still, you look at her with tears brimming in your eyes. You shake your head in disbelief already knowing what you don’t know. 

You just want to go home. 

* * *

Come bother me on [Tumblr](https://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com/).

Fun fact, I have been writing and planning this for nearly two years! I hope it's not as awful as I think it to be. Honestly, I'm quite nervous about it given how different the tone is from my other works. Please let me know your thoughts! 


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